Two men walk into a bar.
“Mr. Murphy, after you,” one man says.
“Thank you, Mr. Tuttle,” the second man says.
These are not their real names. Other than by assignment, the two men don’t know one another personally. Their detailed fictional backgrounds were shared during the briefing, even down to the minutiae of favorite foods and movies, but it’s all a cover. The shadow agency employing them thinks it best that its agents form no personal attachments. A buddy system is for safety and continuity in the eventual termination of an agent. It’s all business.
The bar is Schmitty’s Tavern in Chippewa Valley, near the northern tip of Michigan’s lower peninsula. It’s the middle of February, a foot of snow on the ground, and the bar is crowded with winter warriors. Snowmobilers, ice fisherman, and locals are all rubbing elbows. A ruckus of laughter and cussing fills the air.
“It seems we misjudged the atmosphere, Mr. Tuttle,” Murphy says.
“No worries. I doubt anyone could hear our conversation, even if we shout our plans into their ears,” Tuttle says.
A waitress on double duty as a hostess, addresses them, “You gentleman can find any seat you like. It’s a full house, so I hope you’re feeling neighborly.”
“Not a problem,” Murphy says. “Is it always this hot in here during the winter?”
“Honey, there’s no thermostat in a place this old. Wood stove heating. Two temperatures only — hot, or fire and brimstone — take your pick,” she says walking back to the kitchen.
Short rectangular windows around the upper perimeter are fogged over completely, the slow drips of condensation revealing only darkness and the glare of parking lights outside. The temperature inside is nearing fire and brimstone.
The agents eye the room, a four-corner dive, wood paneling throughout, no booths, all shaky tables, and a mess of beer bottles, burgers and fries on every one of them. A few empty seats are scattered about, but none together. That is, until a man shimmied into a back corner, raises his arm up, and points down next to him. From where they stand it’s hard to see over all the broad cotton flannel shoulders. It looks like an opening.
Murphy and Tuttle walk over to the pointing man. Before they can sit, he is up and offering his hand as a gesture of friendliness. He is gruff, a patchy beard taking hold, on the short side, but broad and stocky. The smell of beer permeates his aura, and a smudge of ketchup decorates his upper lip. With an iron grip, he shakes Tuttle’s hand, and then Murphy’s.
“Tim Church,” he says, by way of introduction.
“Jonathon Tuttle,” Tuttle says.
“Gordon Murphy,” Murphy says.
“Nice to meet you. I try to keep a seat or two free on nights like this. Greet out-of-towners to the area and all. I’m sort of the welcoming committee.”
“Is it that obvious?” Tuttle asks.
“Nah, I’m just a local, so I recognize the unrecognizable.”
“Fair enough.”
Neither of the men wear a black suit or tie. They are instead encouraged to blend into their surroundings at all times. They can be whoever they want to be in order to accomplish the mission and can never represent themselves officially. No badge can ever be flipped open, or authoritative muscles flexed. On paper they simply don’t exist. Even that isn’t enough to blend into a small, unincorporated town like this. Murphy and Tuttle play the part anyhow.
“You up this way for a little R&R?” Church asks, focusing his attention back on the remains of his burger.
“Actually, I’m looking for a year-round cabin to purchase,” Murphy says.
Church regards them with suspicion, and says with a mouth full of burger, “Odd time of year to purchase. Most folks look in the spring when you can actually make your way to the front door. Anyone wanting to sell has probably winterized by now.”
“That’s alright,” Murphy says. “I want to get a feel for the locale. You know, the atmosphere.”
The waitress, Sandra, by her nametag, interrupts their conversation.
“Ready to order?” she asks.
“Beer. To eat, I’ll have whatever you recommend. An appetizer, too,” Murphy says.
“Same,” Tuttle says.
The waitress sets down the tab for Church, walking away without a word or a smile. All business. Just like Tuttle and Murphy.
“Where you boys staying?” Church asks.
“Red Roof Inn off I-31,” Murphy says.
“Ah, yeah, nice place. I’m not sure you’ll see much more than the inside of your hotel rooms, and maybe Schmitty’s while you’re here, unfortunately. Just that time of year is all.”
Church stuffs his face full of the last bite of burger, and then chases it down with several guzzles of beer. He starts to reach into his back pocket and pull out his wallet, but Murphy interrupts him.
“No worries. It’s on me,” Murphy says.
“Hey, that’s very kind of you! Keep buying people’s dinners like that and you’ll find the atmosphere is more welcoming than you prefer.”
“Actually, the dinner might be on my friend here,” he says, pointing to Tuttle. “Can you settle a bet for us?”
“Oh boy, not sure I want to settle a bet for two strangers. Last time I did that I ended up on the witness stand.”
“It’s nothing that serious. I wonder, could you tell me, have you ever seen a UFO in these parts? Strange lights in the sky, that sort of thing?”
Church is quiet for a moment, and then bursts out laughing.
“Well, that’s a new one for me. Every few years you might catch aurora borealis up near Mackinaw City by the bridge. A few locals claim they saw bigfoot, but no aliens.”
“Suppose someone did see something. Maybe even had a close encounter. What do you think their reaction would be to an extraterrestrial?”
“Well, at this time of year people get a little stir crazy. It’s liable to end up looking down the barrel of a Remington 870. You get all the way up North, and a Yooper will call the local newspaper, but not before he stuffs and mounts E.T. over the fireplace for trespassing.”
Murphy smiles over at Tuttle, unfriendly, bordering on a sneer.
“I take it, you lost the bet,” Church says to Tuttle.
“I sure did,” says Tuttle. “But I’m happy to pay for the warm hospitality.”
“Thanks again, gentleman. It’s past my bedtime, so I’ll be heading home. Fair warning, if Sandra brings fried cheese curds for the appetizer, don’t eat them. I don’t know what animal they’re milking, but it sure isn’t one from God’s green earth,” Church says laughing again.
Tuttle turns to watch Church walk away through a maze of tables and out the door, waving to a few men along the way, and then he turns back to Murphy.
“It doesn’t prove anything. Humanity is ready, more so than you can believe. It doesn’t have to be this way anymore,” Tuttle says.
“We’ve got a job to do. When we’re done here, we’re going to finish it,” Murphy says. “Afterward, you can go home to that imaginary wife and those imaginary children of yours, and I’ll go home to my imaginary girlfriend and real TV dinners.”
Tuttle’s disdain for Murphy is growing by the minute. The man he knows as a solid field agent is becoming venomous in all interactions, clouding his judgements.
Their waitress arrives with the appetizer.
“Two orders of fried cheese curds — the house special,” she says.
Back at the hotel the two men rest for several hours in their respective rooms, synchronize their departure for 1am, and then leave together. It will take thirty minutes to drive, another thirty minutes to traipse through the deep snow in the thick of the woods, and then another thirty minutes to terminate the alien arrival and clean up whatever mess is left behind.
The GPS in the SUV directs Murphy, who is driving, to their destination. Normally, Tuttle would remain absolutely quiet, accepting the job as his sworn duty to his country and what he used to believe was in people’s best interests, but he has grown discontent. Is he nothing more than an assassin now?
“Mr. Murphy, I believe our government is at a crossroads. You must recognize the arrivals are coming more frequently. We’ll never be able to stop them all,” Tuttle says. “Besides, they’re not hostile. We know that already.”
“I recognize that. It doesn’t matter. Our job is not to steer the machinations in any direction. If our benefactors go one way, I’ll follow, another, and I’ll follow still. Right now, they’ve decided elimination of the arrivals is necessary.”
“Duty is all you care about then. We’ve been entrusted with one of the greatest secrets mankind has ever kept, and you think it’s because we’re obedient? Could it be because we’ll make the right decision, instead of the one that’s already been made for us?”
Murphy is silent and focused. The road before them grows even darker, no houses or streetlights to guide their path. The infrequent rumble of the suspension over rougher winter roads is the only sound penetrating the bleak surroundings. A woman’s robotic voice finally breaks the silence, indicating the destination is up ahead.
Wilderness State Park is advertised on a wooden sign near a clearing. Murphy turns into the entrance, driving slowly on the gravel road, sloshing through potholes, finally turning off his high beams in favor of a floodlight off the rearview mirror. Slowly, he pulls up close to the shoulder, careful not to veer into a ditch, parks, and then turns off the engine and floodlight.
“I’m going to recommend that you be removed from the program,” Murphy says.
“How do you know I won’t be more persuasive?” Tuttle asks.
“They see it my way. They always have. You’ll be reassigned if you’re lucky.”
“You’re right. I’ve decided of my own accord that this will be my last job. After tonight, you can have all the honor and glory you deserve.”
“So be it. You’re still coming. The last thing I need is for you to abandon me out here, or to try something stupid,” Murphy says. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Mr. Tuttle.”
“I already am,” Tuttle says, getting out of the car.
Big Stone Bay and Sturgeon Bay surround the park, their shorelines a frozen oasis by now, but the winds off the waves push cold air right through the forest trees, whipping up gusts of snow. Both Murphy and Tuttle come prepared, donning full snowsuits, gloves, hats and coats meant for harsher conditions. Both have ski poles to help guide them through the underbrush. Murphy opts to carry the shiny chrome briefcase containing the weapon.
Tuttle pulls up his hand-held GPS and directs them further. Murphy cracks a large glow stick hanging from his jacket, instantly regretting the choice. The extra light makes him an easier target to hit, putting him at a considerable disadvantage should he need to shoot Tuttle for treason. It isn’t out of the question, and at this juncture both men recognize that uncomfortable truth.
“This is it,” Tuttle finally says, stopping. “Not just the spot, but your last chance to provide hope to generations. Give them an opportunity to live long enough to see the universe and all it has to offer.”
“They’re not arriving for our benefit.”
“You don’t know that. Peace was offered once. A common good. Is it so bad that we would all find equal footing?”
“Would you give up your freedom so easily? Liberty requires allowing for choice. They’re not going to give us one.”
“But we’ll never know that, will we?”
Murphy ignores his accomplice, sets the briefcase down in the snow, removes his glove and uses his thumbprint to unlock it. The latches click, the lid opens and folds over, and an LCD screen automatically pops up displaying an intricate radar map of their location, range indicators and a coordinate map of the hemisphere. A blip is already flashing, moving quickly closer. A red button under a protective case is next to a numerical pad, ready for operation.
Neither man understands the science behind it all, but whenever it’s activated, there won’t be much left of the ship to collect.
Up above, in the furthest reaches of the atmosphere a twinkling light can be seen, and then an object descends slowly, a saucer shaped darkness blotting out clumps of stars. Murphy and Tuttle can see it now, knowing what it can bring to mankind, and that their mission involves making sure it doesn’t stay. They are distracted looking up into the sky while they wait for it to close the gap, only to hear the soft crunch of snow behind them.
A shotgun blast rings out, echoing off the trunks of the dense tall evergreens. Murphy drops to his knees, blood pooling on his jacket, and then falls forward. Tuttle turns quickly and fires the entire clip from his service revolver into the night.
Silence.
Then a groan as a man lurches out from the midst of the trees. The agent takes out a glow stick and cracks it, bringing it up so he can see clearly, casting a light toward Tim Church. He is bloodied and tumbles forward into a pile of scattered branches, dropping the shotgun in the process.
Tuttle makes his way through to Church, kneels beside him, and turns him over onto his back.
“Who are you for real?” Tuttle asks.
“I’m the one that got away. I was the first,” Church says.
“If that’s true, why did you tell them to keep coming? Knowing what would happen? Knowing what we would do!”
“Because I know there are some… who see it as we do… as you do.”
Church, or the embodiment of a man who used to be Church, breathes long, raspy shallow breaths. There is nothing Tuttle can do so far out in the wilderness.
“Will you die?” Tuttle asks.
“It’s not really death. Matter cannot cease to exist. It can only… change form.”
“What happens now?”
It’s too late. The visitor known only as Church is dead, and so is Murphy. All that is left to do is wait.
Brightness overtakes Tuttle, both his body and soul. Looking up into the sky he waits for his world to change as the ship hovers directly above. He will not press the red button.
Dear Reader: This week I contributed an article and illustration to Fictionistas explaining how authors can find success with their fiction Substack. You can read the article here.
The Stars Will Fall
This story is so eerie because I live about Thirty-Eight miles NW Of a UFO crash site. It all happened in 1940 in a small town of 30.000 people a UFO crashed up against a mountain. It was quite the scene and rattled the whole community. The police found two Aliens one was alive and taken to a private location. No one was allowed to enter the area or drive by for many months. The people that were directly involved told stories of these creatures with big eyes and small bodies. Scientists from all over the world came to our little town. After that, it was hush-hush and the people that were directly involved died in mysterious ways. We have a museum full of details and original newspapers from the day of the crash. Even a life-like body of the Alein that was found at the crash site. You can still see the indentation in the mountainside where the ship crashed. People have experienced bizarre things when passing by this area. I believe that Aliens 👽 walk amongst us undetected.
This is fun science fiction.